


Unwound

by pristineungift



Series: The Portamis Collection [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Philosophy, Present Tense, Sexual Content, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pristineungift/pseuds/pristineungift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Porthos shuts the outer door of Aramis’ apartments with a loud clatter, pulling Aramis from his thoughts. He doesn’t remember the walk, or taking out his key, but he must have, for here they are, in his sitting room.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Tell me,” Porthos commands, his face sharp and so, so beautiful. So beautiful it hurts.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>One Portamis drabble for every episode</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwound

**Author's Note:**

> As one drabble was before, this one is in the present tense. Also I'm really sick and have a fever of 101, but just delirious enough to think I'm a genius, so if things don't make sense... that's probs why. Also, Aramis is a huge drama queen.
> 
> Also let me be clear I am not bashing Anne, I also write Annamis, so like. Put your pitchforks away and whatnot.

They leave the queen in the arms of her king, and Aramis walks home with his fellows, his back teeth clenched against bile. Athos is giving him indecipherable looks, and Porthos knows something is badly wrong. Of course he does.

D’Artagnan remains d’Artagnan, and for that Aramis can only give thanks.

They stop and linger outside the door of The Fox, and Athos silently commands that Porthos see Aramis back to his rooms without saying anything at all. It is an intriguing skill, this ability to give orders without so much as changing expression, and now that Aramis knows Athos is a nobleman he wonders if there’s something in the blood after all.

D’Artagnan follows Athos into the tavern, his Musketeer uniform still shiny and new despite a few days of hard work, and Aramis wishes that he could be as unwrinkled and clean. But he is not, and he never will be again. Isabel has tugged at the fabric of his past, pulling strings loose, and with her death unwound almost the entire tapestry.

_His is not a story of love lost, but of a woman who did not believe in him._

The worst part is, she was probably right. His lusts and yearning for adventure would have made them both miserable, and killed them both in the end. In spirit, if not body. Was he not complaining only minutes before the first attack of the assassins that he was bored and missed Paris?

Ironic, then, that though Isabel chose a different life, Aramis was still the one to bring death to her door.

They will not be meeting again in heaven. There is no place for him there.

Porthos shuts the outer door of Aramis’ apartments with a loud clatter, pulling Aramis from his thoughts. He doesn’t remember the walk, or taking out his key, but he must have, for here they are, in his sitting room.

He takes his hat off and tosses it onto the nearby table.

“Tell me,” Porthos commands, his face sharp and so, so beautiful. So beautiful it hurts.

Aramis squeezes his eyes shut, biting back a moan of dismay. He can’t tell Porthos. They have rarely held anything back from each other, but this, this Aramis cannot say.

It is not just caution that stays his tongue, but shame.

How can he tell Porthos, _I was hurt and you weren’t there, so I slept with the first person to offer me solace?_ How can he admit he put all their lives in danger and it wasn’t even for love?

He does love the queen, of course he does, but it is the love of a knight for their liege, not a man for a woman. He does not know her well enough for anything else, and while he once might have played this game of passion and royalty with a jaunty laugh, that was before Porthos.

There were so many things before Porthos.

They will _take_ women, they agreed, but they will not _keep_ them.  They have both followed those rules. Aramis does not deceive the ladies he lavishes with his attentions – they all know that he will entertain them with a tryst or two, and then he will move on.

But the queen… the queen is a woman who means to be kept. Or rather, she means to keep _him_. The cross he always wears, once a cherished luck piece, feels now like a collar, a brand burning into his devilish flesh, marking him as hers for always and pointing the finger of damnation past him, to Athos, Porthos, and even d’Artagnan.

For a moment of comfort, a hot slide between sweet thighs, he betrayed them all. It doesn’t matter that he wasn’t thinking, it doesn’t matter that the queen’s heart was as raw and bleeding as his own, it doesn’t matter that she was a woman offering him love when he thought himself unlovable.

It matters that she is the queen, and he, one of the King’s Musketeers, has committed treason, and the consequences of the deed will fall on the heads of his brothers as well as his own.

For all these reasons and more, he can’t tell Porthos the stupid thing he’s done. Porthos and d’Artagnan must not know. It is the only thing that may keep them safe, if Aramis’ indiscretion ever comes to light.

“Tell me,” Porthos says again, and now his hands are on Aramis’ shoulders, an edge of fear winding through his voice. “Aramis!”

Aramis looks away, turning his face to stare to Porthos’ right. Porthos stands before him, and Aramis leans into his chest, wanting to feel him breathe, _needing_ to feel his presence. “It’s nothing,” he says when he finds his voice. “Nothing I can say. I did something stupid, and I’m sorry.”

_Sorry, sorry, so sorry, mi Dios, mi reina, mi Porthos._

Porthos' hands come up, one going to Aramis' hip and the other carding through his hair. “Aramis,” Porthos rumbles in his ear, and Aramis clutches at him, uncaring of the way weapon hilts and powder flasks dig into their bodies.

“I want to tell you, but I can’t,” Aramis hisses into Porthos’ ear, and he doesn’t know if he’s lying, just knows it’s what he has to say. Desperately, he scrabbles at the fastenings of Porthos’ doublet, fingers made clumsy by his haste. Porthos pulls him closer and holds him tighter, forcing Aramis’ hands into stillness.

“Porthos, please,” Aramis begs. He cannot put into words what he needs, what will stop this feeling of suffocation. He is not the man he thought he was. He is not the hero of a romantic ballad with a tragic love. He is a foolish boy with a ridiculous hat who pretends at being noble and believes his own lies. He is a poor imitation of d’Artagnan, ten years older and not half as good-hearted.

He slept with the queen because she was there and willing, and she’s probably built it up into some great star-crossed romance, and she’s _him_ and he’s _Isabel_ and the whole story is starting itself over again.

“Shhh,” Porthos whispers against his neck, and Aramis is hefted and tossed over Porthos' shoulder, and yes, this, this is what he needs. Not to be in charge, not to think, not to wonder.

He doesn’t know who he is anymore, and he hopes Porthos can show him.

He must say something aloud, because Porthos answers, “You are Aramis. A King’s Musketeer.” He kisses Aramis hard and rips at the laces of his shirt, making Aramis’ toes curl. “You’re my friend,” Porthos goes on, voice low and rough and delicious. “My brother,” he nips at Aramis’ throat, done with the shirt and moving on to breeches. “My lover,” he says at last, Aramis gasping at the feel of hot hands on hotter flesh.

The next few minutes are a tangle of want, and _yes_ , and _please_ , and sounds that Aramis did not know he could make. Porthos is not gentle, not at all, and with every mark he leaves on Aramis’ skin he wipes away the queen’s touch. Not as if it has never been, but it lets Aramis pretend, for a while, that he wasn’t so frightfully stupid.

( _He aches for her, he does, he really does, but his brothers must come first. Porthos must come first, always, that is what they promised._ )

“I have been untrue,” Aramis says into the quiet, when he and Porthos are curled together, naked and sated. Porthos’ fingers falter in the path he was stroking down Aramis’ chest, but then resume.

“You’re allowed women, Aramis. We’ve been through this,” he says.

Aramis shakes his head. “In my heart. I was untrue. I failed you. Athos and d’Artagnan too.”

This gives Porthos pause, but he knows Aramis well, too well by half and he asks no more questions, save for, “What is there to be done about it now?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you regret it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would you do it again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm,” Porthos says, dragging his beard down the side of Aramis’ arm. “A lot of fuss over a whole lot of nothing, then.”

It’s so essentially _Porthos_ that Aramis laughs, and if he cries a little too, even he isn’t sure if the tears are caused by mirth or sorrow.

“Porthos?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“I know, Aramis.

“I’ll tell you one day.”

“I know.”

Aramis turns on his side, feeling oddly better, and is caught by the sight of his cross lying on the bedside table. He starts to reach for it, but at the last second stops himself.

He’ll put it back on in the morning.


End file.
